Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue.

Rated: T, as always.

A/N: So, this kind of turned more into a oneshot than a drabble, but I decided to leave it the way it is for a couple of reasons: a) it's in my drabble format, b) the length and the dialogue are used more as a device for getting the message of the drabble across, not just to tell the story.

It's set after season 2, episode 1, 'Butterflies', in 3rd person, from Andy's point of view - heavily featuring Sam Swarek, because where would we be without Sam/Andy interactions?

I hope you enjoy this super-extended drabble, because I LOVED writing it.

Andy McNally. Set after 'Butterflies'.

She's gotten a lot of bruises on the job.

Down the side of her jaw after a swing from an agitated arrestee; marks on her hands from falling to the ground while an overheated homeless man stood above her, ready to strike with what could have been a fatal blow; angry streaks the size of fingers on her neck from the escaped convict in the woods, and the painful swelling of her ankle from that same incident.

Being a cop is definitely not without its dangers. Every time they put on the uniform and go out onto the streets, they have to deal with the knowledge that this shift could very well be their last. It's something they knew when they chose this line of work, but couldn't even begin to really comprehend until they've stood there, staring death in the face, and walked away from it.

Danger is all around them in the world, and putting on that uniform means they're not only inviting it, but walking into the fray.

So yes, she's gotten more than her fair share of bruises since that first day.

But now, as she sits on a cold metal table in the ER – (You're going to have to go to the hospital, Jo had said, let's see how soon) – with her shirt pulled up to expose the dark, harsh bruising on the left side of her torso across her ribcage … now, she knows that this is the first time any of her bruises will scar.

True, the colors will fade and her ribs will heal, but the marks and the memories have imprinted themselves upon her soul.

The doctor's hands are cold on her skin and bring her back down to reality, wincing loudly as he pushes the tenderest spot. Her face contorts in pain and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut, biting on her lip so as not to whimper in pain. He presses down a few times more – testing to see if the ribs give way. When they don't, he lets go, reaching for the chart to record his findings.

He tells her that he doesn't think anything's cracked, but he's going to send her down to X-Ray just to double check. "Then you can be on your way," he says, once she's opened her eyes, pulled down her shirt, and unclenched her jaw. "But it'll still be tender for a couple of weeks, at least, so take it easy." He aims that last part at Sam, who's standing just inside the door still in uniform.

He nods to the doctor, acknowledging the point without speaking up.

She goes down to X-Ray where they snap a few shots of her abdomen and have her sign a few forms before she's allowed to leave. She walks as quickly as she can without looking suspiciously hurried or causing herself pain, making her way to the front doors where Sam is waiting.

She doesn't say a word – she hasn't for who knows how long today – and he doesn't break the silence between them. Sometimes it infuriates her that he can stand a silence for so long, and even prefers it half the time, but right now she's grateful that he's not the kind of man who needs to fill spaces with meaningless words.

When he turns the key in the ignition, the car radio crackles to life with a flashy guitar solo of a quality that screams 80s. She reaches out and turns it off, blushing when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye and averting her gaze to the windshield. He drives her to her new place without a word, and it doesn't occur to her to be curious about how he knows where she lives now.

"Thanks," she murmurs, reaching for the door handle, but he reaches across her torso and grabs her wrist gently, stopping her.

"McNally," he begins quietly, then struggling with himself for a moment. He eventually continues, "How are you?"

It's been a long couple of days, and she feels like that's the only thing anyone's been asking her. Right after the shooting, hours after the shooting, a day after the shooting, after she caught the shooter on the rooftop; the only thing anyone wants to know is how she is. But there's something in his voice – a clear sincerity – that makes her keep most of the annoyance out of her tone. "I won't get the X-Ray results for a couple of days, but you heard the doctor; I'll be good as new in a couple of weeks," she tells him, thinking again of the bruise on her torso.

He shakes his head. "I wasn't talking about your ribs, Andy."

Maybe it's the sound of his voice, so quiet but persistent, or the use of her first name, but she clenches her hand into a fist and stares down at it in her lap, biting her lip and blinking away the forming tears. It would be so easy to say, "I'm fine," nonchalant but insistent, the way she has been every other time someone asked, and get out of the car. But at the same time, she doesn't think she can do that; doesn't think she can hide behind a lie and run away from him.

"This isn't the kind of case you can leave behind you," he tells her, firm but not expecting a reply in return, for which she's thankful. "You can't write up your report, file it, and push it out of your mind. This is the kind of case that leaves scars."

Her hand involuntarily reaches for the spot the bullet hit her vest, where the physical marks will fade but she's sure others will remain.

He notices the movement, and nods.

"This is the kind of case you carry with you for the rest of your career; rest of your life. And at first it's hard, but eventually you accept what happened and you use it to make you a better officer; a better person." He hesitates, reaching over and gently squeezing the hand still clenched in her lap. "You're not okay right now" – she makes to protest futilely, but he cuts her off swiftly before she can begin, continuing – "and nobody expects you to be okay right now. But with time, you will be … alright?"

He holds her gaze, steady, while a tear breaks past the barrier and rolls down the right side of her face. He doesn't let go or look away until she's reached up, wiped it away, and nodded in confirmation. He nods back, giving her hand one last squeeze before pulling away.

She gets out, closing the door gently behind her and walking around the car to the front door before turning around. She meets his gaze, and her thank you is unspoken but clearly heard.

This is the first of the bruises to scar her; but it won't be her last.

The end.

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